


Little Blue Jay

by Sarah_Vincent1506



Series: AskPolyLosersClub Oneshots [3]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, NSFW, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 15:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14381202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Vincent1506/pseuds/Sarah_Vincent1506
Summary: Stan demonstrates to Bill, the benefits of submission.College-Age Losers' Club.Oneshot, paired with the askpolylosersclub ask blog on Tumblr, in which the Losers are in a polyamorous relationship. For Abbi.





	Little Blue Jay

Stanley Uris hasn’t always been a dominant person.

 

Once upon a time, he was rather timid, unassuming. The kind of person who was afraid to make waves, because he felt that all he had to keep him afloat in the ocean of life, was a tissue-paper boat. A lack of self-confidence, fears and anxieties, uncertainty about who he was, and what he wanted, were all the kinds of things that used to hold him back, then. A shadow, in the Losers’ Club, hidden in the background, amidst a crowd of overpowering personalities. Stan was always the ‘tactician’, quietly observant, practical, and logically thinking. But for all those positive qualities, he found it incredibly difficult to be assertive, to take control, even when it was _killing_ him, not to.

 

Bill Denbrough has always been the opposite.

 

He has always been a leader, a herald, a martyr. Shy, self-deprecating, and unsure, on the inside, where Stan was confident, but bold, assertive, and brave, on the outside, where Stan was not any of those things, at all. Stan has often thought that Bill, as the unofficial, but undeniable ‘leader’, of their group, holds that power with a certain amount of reluctance. Because, while he knows that he is strong, and skilled, and that he is _good_ at taking control, that perception of responsibility carries with it a weight…a burden he never really wanted.

 

Unfortunately, it is a burden that Bill has shouldered ever since they were children. And a burden that Stan is tirelessly attempting to encourage him to let go of. To allow himself to be taken care of, the way he has always done for everybody else. To submit.

 

While Stan has outgrown his shell, has gained an outward confidence and self-assuredness that now matches the way he feels, on the inside, Bill has held onto his worries like a weary soldier, who has fought far too many battles, and cannot seem to allow himself to believe that he doesn’t have to fight, anymore. He is kind, of course, softly spoken, and sometimes even shy, but there is a thick, hard, exterior, there, that refuses to allow for any kind of weakness, at all.

 

Stan thinks that this is especially apparent, in the bedroom.

 

It wasn’t until the eighth time they had sex, that Bill felt comfortable enough to allow Stan to be on top. Even then, Bill found the preparation incredibly difficult, almost humiliating, and remains that way, even now. It’s as though his mind, intent on always taking charge, insistent upon being the ‘giver’, and not the ‘receiver’, won’t allow him to fully enjoy being submissive. As though he feels that he is undeserving of the pleasure and attention Stan desperately wants to give him, and wants him to thoroughly relish in. There is an intense amount of vulnerability and trust, that comes along with allowing another person into your body, that way; Stan understands that, very well, of course, but even after years of mutual sexual experience, and experimentation, it seems that Bill is, surprisingly, even more stubborn than Stan, once his mind is fixed on a particular idea. And that idea, unfortunately, seems to be that he cannot allow another person to take complete control of him.

 

It’s similarly unfortunate, that Stanley Uris is a control freak.

 

Therefore, as far as Stan is concerned, it’s about time Bill learned the benefits of total submission.

 

This has been a long time coming, anyway. For months, Stan has been building up to it. It began the first time he ever suggested Bill wear a collar. Bill’s expression was priceless, when Stan showed him the thin circle of black leather.

 

“Why do you want me t-t-to wear this?”

 

“Because every time you feel it, or see it, you’re going to remember who you belong to.”

 

Bill sniggered, then, although he had that trademark Bill Denbrough furrow in his brow, as though the thought worried him. And the tension, around his throat, even when the collar was loose, made him uneasy. He wore it, anyway, of course, and he has worn them plenty of times, since, but Stan always gets the impression that Bill is just humouring him, and that he gets very little pleasure out of it, himself. That’s fine. He expected as much. At the very least, Bill enjoys roleplay, and that’s all the collars are, to him; a costume, a part to play, to please Stan. But to Stan, they are a symbol. An icon of dominance and belonging. A reminder that Bill Denbrough may be strong, and fearless, and well-respected, but, to Stanley Uris, he will eventually surrender _everything._

Since then, Stan has employed plenty of other tactics, pushed boundaries to try to get Bill accustomed to the feeling of vulnerability, to show him that it isn’t an inherently negative experience. Bill has been tied up, had his hands cuffed behind his back, a blindfold over his eyes, a gag around his mouth; he has been subjected to every means of passivism and pliancy, and still, he will not fully relent. Even with his wrists bound tightly to the bedposts, he will still attempt to regain control, struggling against the bonds uncomfortably, as though their mere presence feels somehow _wrong._ He will still seize up, and remain tense, throughout, while Stan’s fingers are inside him, even if those fingers expertly reach places inside his body that leave him paralysed with sexual ecstasy. He still bit his lip, on the one and only occasion, when Stan’s tongue was there, instead, thighs taut with unease, body unable to relax, at the indecency of it all. Even when he feels pleasure, in these ways, Bill still won’t, _can’t_ let go. And it is this wall he has built, that Stan is intent on breaking down.

 

On this day, in particular, Stan is taking a sledgehammer to that damned wall.

 

It’s 3PM, and they are alone, in the house. Stan has been planning this exact moment for weeks, organising, calculating, waiting for the perfect opportunity, when schedules align accordingly, for them to have this amount of time, alone. Eddie has cheer practice, and boxing, Richie is at a play rehearsal, Mike and Ben are staying late together in the campus library, to study, and Beverly is attending a house party, with some of her designer friends; _of course_ the others were invited, but Stan made it _crystal_ clear, that he thought it was important that they have separate friends. He may or may not have made this speech in a vaguely threatening manner, so that they took the hint, and didn’t attempt to turn it into a group activity. It seems that they did. Stan has even taken the day off work, for this. He has never taken a day off work, in his life, until now.

 

When something is planned by Stanley Uris, it is planned to a ‘T’.

 

He spent the morning doting on Bill with uncharacteristic affection, to loosen his guard, and make him feel at ease. Just enough, to soften him up, but not enough to cause suspicion, and, therefore, distrust. They woke up together, and Stan, not much of a kisser, even at his most passionate, greeted Bill with a deep, slow, intense kiss, the kind he knew Bill wouldn’t soon forget. And, afterwards, he left the bed, to take a shower, despite Bill’s puppy-dog eyes, and the way he held onto Stan’s hand, and tried to pull him back. That was the first, strong move of the pieces on the chessboard, the one Stan envisions in his mind, sometimes.

 

And in any of these plans, that involve Bill, Stan often imagines that Bill is the King.

 

One might surmise, therefore, that Stan imagines Bill to be the strongest player. But, no. The King is outwardly domineering, yes, important, of course, but anyone with even the vaguest understanding of chess, knows that it is the Queen, who is the one to be feared.

 

And what might Stanley Uris, proud, elegant, and vicious, imagine himself to be?

 

At breakfast, just as Stan had calculated, Bill had taken the seat beside him. Remaining calm, collected, and indifferent, Stan drank his coffee, and read his newspaper, as normal, feeling Bill’s eyes on the side of his face, frequently. Bill is easy to entice into sexual thoughts, easy to rile up, in a sexual manner, and it’s not something he can ever let go of, quickly, once that seed has been planted, in his mind. His masculinity, and the aura of leadership about him, mean that these thoughts likely involve Bill taking charge, but that isn’t what Stan wants. This time, he wants Bill’s thoughts to be skewed, in the opposite direction.

 

He reached over, absent-mindedly, still focused intently on an article about unusual amounts of snow, in New York City, that season, and caressed the back of Bill’s neck, just a little. It was a small, unsuspicious gesture of affection, no more than a light stroke, a gentle squeeze, and then his hand dropped back to the paper. To Bill, however, it was far bigger, than that. His neck is incredibly sensitive…erogenous, especially right at the back, where the neat, ‘V’, of his auburn hair ends. Stan could feel Bill’s stare, harder and hotter than ever, as he scratched a little at the skin where Stan had touched him, as though rubbing away the ghost of his fingertips, and the ticklish, itchy arousal he left behind.

 

When Stan rose from his seat, at the kitchen table, Bill rose, too, all too quickly. This drew the immediate attention of some of their other housemates, and a particularly loud, knowing laugh from Richie, which Bill quickly latched onto, as a means of distracting from his unusual actions, laughing with him. The moment passed, but when they crossed paths, in the corridor, not long after, Stan rested his palm against Bill’s lower back, to manoeuvre him by. It was another tiny gesture, that could easily go unnoticed, but to Stan, it was another tactic, another small, but significant move, from a pawn, in his play. It’s a sensitive, intimate area, to be touched, for anyone, but for a man, in particular, it’s significant…intentionally suggestive. Stan heard the silence, behind him, as he descended the stairs, of Bill’s footsteps having ceased, as he watched him walk away.

 

By lunchtime, Ben and Mike had already gone to the campus library, intending on staying there for the later half of the day. Stan ate lunch in his room, as he studied, knowing, as Stan often does, that he wouldn’t be alone, for very long. As he suspected, Bill came into the room, before Stan had even finished his salad, hovering around the desk, and trying to make small talk.

 

“Bill, I took the day off to study,” Stan had said, though he was lying, “I’ll play with you later.”

 

The manner in which he said those final words, could have been considered joking, alluding to the idea of entertaining a child, but it could also be taken a _very_ different way. And this clearly was not lost on Bill, as he heavily exhaled, in what was almost a laugh, but sounded far more awkward, and almost frustrated. He had left, only seconds later, not one to linger, when he knows that Stan is busy, and could very easily become irritated.

 

By early evening, Eddie had driven Richie to his play rehearsal, and gone to cheer practice, himself, leaving Bev, the final hurdle, before Stan had Bill completely alone. She wasn’t much of a disturbance, anyway. Several times, she entered Stan’s room, to ask his opinion on an item of clothing, her hairstyle, her make-up, as she got ready to go to her party, and Stan did his best to appear interested, though his mind was completely distracted elsewhere. He hadn’t seen Bill, for several hours, and it was filling his chest with an odd sense of longing, which he cursed himself for; that kind of weakness is the exact opposite of what he needs, tonight.

 

Eventually, at 6.30PM, Beverly departs, with a soft kiss to Stan’s lips.

 

He watches her leave, in a cab, through the front window, in the lounge, before drawing the curtains. He moves into the kitchen, and closes the blinds, and finally, enters the back room, where Bill is calmly painting at his easel. He closes the curtains in there, too.

 

“I c-c-can’t see what I’m d-doing, now,” Bill stammers, questioning intonation in his voice, as he turns to look at Stan. He’s not mad, though, he’s smiling.

 

“Would that hinder a true artist?” Stan responds playfully, as he perches on the edge of the desk, close to the easel, where Beverly’s sewing machine sits. He’s watching Bill, like a predator, admiring each feature of his face and body, individually, as though calculating what he might do, to every one. He feels a stirring of arousal, low in his abdomen, and it takes him a little by surprise; he was so busy focusing on encouraging it, in Bill, that he failed to recognise how much he wants this, himself.

 

Bill is _beautiful_.

 

He has the handsome masculinity, of a tall, lean body, broad shoulders, strong arms and hands, and a sculpted jaw, but the delicate femininity of full lips, silken hair, baby-blue eyes, and impossibly smooth skin, that looks perpetually youthful. His personality, is much the same mix; he is determined, fearless, and headstrong, but equal parts gentle, caring and shy. His voice, despite his stutter, commands authority in its tone, but carries such a softness, sometimes, that it’s almost _ethereal_.

 

Stan doesn’t think that he says so, enough, but he loves every part of Bill. _Every_ part.

 

Bill laughs, but his amusement quickly falters, when he sees the way that Stan is looking at him.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“I love you.”

 

Bill seems a little taken aback. It’s not that he hasn’t heard it, before, but it’s not something Stan says, often, nor that he offers up lightly.

 

“I love you, t-too,” Bill smiles, though his brow is furrowed, “Is s-s-something wrong?”

 

“Not at all.” Stan takes Bill’s hand, when it is reached out to him, “I just don’t think I tell you often enough.”

 

Stan lifts Bill’s hand to his lips, and gently kisses his knuckles, and Bill sniggers, watching him in amusement, although there is still a semblance of worry, in his expression. It’s the same kind of worry Bill very often wears, when he’s looking at Stan, and he thinks that Stan can’t see him. Stan _hates_ that look.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Stan says, firmly.

“L-l-like what?”

 

“Like I’m going to break, unless _you_ hold me together.”

 

Bill is staring at him, in silence, now.

 

“Like you feel as though you have to take care of me, because I can’t cope, by myself.”

 

“Th-that’s n-not-”

 

“I’m not mad at you, for feeling that way,” Stan gently slides his fingers through Bill’s, and he stands, indicating that he wants to take his other hand, too, until Bill puts down his paintbrush, so that he can. Stan may be ever-so-slightly slimmer, than Bill, but he is also ever-so-slightly taller, and it shows, when they’re close, like this. “I understand why you do. I would probably feel that way, too, if our situations were reversed.”

 

Bill squeezes his hands, gently.

 

“You have always been stronger than I am,” Stan continues, “And you probably always will be. But that doesn’t mean that you always have to protect me; I’m stronger, now, than I have ever been, and it is thanks to you, that I can be.”

 

Bill smiles, though it is timid and undeserving.

 

“And I want you to know that I will always protect you, too.”

 

“I-I don’t know what to s-say.” Bill’s voice is quiet, when he finally speaks.

 

“You don’t have to say anything. I don’t expect a response, or for you to reciprocate; you’ve done so much for me, already, that it’s going to be very difficult for me to repay you.”

 

“You don’t-”

 

“But I’m going to.” Stan pulls him closer, using his grip on Bill’s hands, rests their foreheads together. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life, trying. I want you to feel as though you can come home, to me, after a stressful day at work, and tell me all about it. I want you to feel as though you can cry, to me, if you need to. I want to take care of you, when you’re sick. I want to comfort you, when you’re sad. I want to protect you, when you’re scared. I’m not a damsel in distress, and you’re not some burly knight.” Bill laughs, and Stan does, too, “We’re partners. Equals.”

 

“I j-just-”

 

“Shhh,” Stan lifts his hand, between them, to press a finger to Bill’s lips, “End of discussion.”

 

“It wasn’t really a discussion. You didn’t let me s-speak.”

 

“Welcome to being in a relationship with _me_.”

 

Bill sniggers, as he leans in, towards Stan’s lips, and Stan allows it, shares in a brief kiss. He feels Bill’s arm go around his waist, and knows that he wants the kiss to continue, but Stan pulls away, intentionally leaving him wanting more.

“Will you let me take care of you?” Stan asks, quietly. He teases him with another light kiss, almost quick enough to be considered nothing more than a ‘peck’. Stan may not be a huge fan of kissing, but Bill certainly _is_ , and he’s going to give him everything he wants, and several things he doesn’t even _know_ he does. They _both_ know that sex is on their minds, now, and it’s going to happen. The question is, ‘how?’

 

“You can d-do my homework,” Bill responds, with a soft titter, chasing Stan’s lips, for another kiss. He manages to hold onto it, for longer, this time, before Stan pulls away, ghosting their mouths together.

 

“Maybe I just want to do _you_.”

 

Bill kisses him, once more, and this one is a little more desperate, though he laughs, softly, into Stan’s mouth, until Stan pulls away, again, still proving that he has all of the control. He lifts both hands, now, to rest at either side of Bill’s neck. Briefly, his thumbs sit against his throat, until they’re almost touching each other, and Bill’s pulse instantly quickens; in his eyes, there’s noticeable panic. If there’s one thing Bill is irrationally afraid of, it’s this, and Stan quickly, and incredibly gently, brushes his thumbs aside, allows his hands to slide around onto the back of his neck, instead. That little bit of adrenaline, has Bill’s heart thumping in his chest, Stan can feel it. Their eyes meet, intensely, and Stan knows that Bill can tell what his are saying: ‘I would _never_ hurt you. You’re safe, with me _._ Trust me.’

 

“I s-still c-c-can’t tell when you’re k-kidding…”

 

“Let me take care of you,” Stan says, once more, although, this time, it is slightly commanding, and no longer a question, “Let me make you feel good.”

 

Bill goes silent, but his expression is soft, almost…wanting.

 

“You know that I can.” Stan is almost whispering, now; the house is empty, so there’s no need to do so, but it feels so much more sensual, so much more intimate. He uses his hands on the back of Bill’s neck to hold him close, and keep his gaze, “I can make you feel _so_ good, Bill.”

 

Bill is putty in his hands, now, even more so than he usually is. His eyes have that glaze, to them, that looks almost high. Stan can feel the press, against his hip, of an erection that’s already in the later stages of intensity, despite having only appeared within the last couple of minutes; Bill is easy to manipulate, like that, and it’s what’s going to make this _so_ rewarding.

 

Bill’s response is very telling; quickly, he moves in for yet another kiss. This time, his head is tilted, when he closes the gap between them, and his mouth is already open. Stan gives him everything he wants, and more, mirroring Bill’s intensity, to rile him, further. Usually, Stan’s kisses are deep, slow, and teasing, but this one is quick, rough, and desperate. He bites at Bill’s lips, licks his way into his mouth, and sucks on his tongue, and when he opens his eyes, just a little, he can see that Bill’s are still closed, and there’s a fierce knot in his brow.

 

Slowly, Stan backs Bill into the nearest wall, until it’s flush against his back. He uses his tiny height advantage to crowd him, as much as possible, accentuating _exactly_ who is in control, his fingertips grazing up Bill’s scalp, and getting a firm grip on his hair. He feels himself getting possessive, and the feeling swells, in his chest, when Bill groans into his mouth.

 

“I love you _so_ much, it’s disgusting.” Stan breathes, as he pulls their lips apart, and Bill laughs breathlessly, eyes fixed upon him in a pleasingly obedient manner, as Stan languidly begins to unbutton Bill’s flannel shirt, taking his time, feeling no need to rush any part of this evening. He kisses his ear, and then begins to suck against the skin, just beneath it, creating a mark that he knows will be visible, later, that he _wants_ to be visible, later. He’s going to utterly take Bill apart, tonight, piece by piece, and he’s going to make sure that Bill remembers, that he did, every time he sees the ‘souvenirs’, on his body.

 

Bill is getting more and more inflamed, by the second, fingers clumsily tangling into Stan’s hair, and fidgeting against his scalp, as Stan lazily completes his distinctive trail of bruises, from beneath Bill’s ear, down to his collarbone, and the centre of his chest, and then back up again, at the other side, almost in a ‘V’. He tugs Bill’s earlobe, between his teeth, and with wet lips, whispers softly into his ear.

 

“Tell me, _Big Bill_ , who do you belong to?”

 

Bill shudders, all the way down his body, and Stan sees the rise and fall of his throat as he swallows, hard. He even catches, from the corner of his eye, the way Bill’s hips lift toward him, in a small, subconscious rut. Smugly, Stan slides one hand down between their bodies, until his fingertips are _just_ touching the waistband of Bill’s jeans; this earns him a slightly amused, frustrated groan, because they both know what the deal is, now: ‘You give me what _I_ want, and I’ll return the favour.’

 

“You,” Bill blurts out, in rapid response, and Stan responds, in turn, by kissing at the front of Bill’s neck, right under his chin, as his hand descends to cup at the uncomfortable tent in the crotch of his jeans, where he starts to knead down with the heel of his hand.

 

He hears Bill’s head hit the wall with a gentle _thud,_ his outward breath. He’s even harder than Stan thought, and there’s a definite warm, dampness to the denim fabric, that Stan is only encouraging to the surface, as he strokes and squeezes and rubs his thumb hard into the most saturated area. Every time Bill groans, or even breathes too heavily, Stan feels far less satisfied with teasing, and much more eager to please; within a couple of minutes, Bill’s jeans are folded over the back of a nearby chair, his boxer briefs are around his thighs, and Stan has him in his hand. Bill’s flesh is hot, sticky, and becoming gradually slick, as Stan strokes him _agonisingly_ slowly, right from base to tip on each movement, watching Bill’s flushed face as he pants out short, lustful breaths and occasionally stutters quiet curses. Several times, he begs Stan to go faster, but this is something Stan won’t relent in, fiendishly delighting in Bill’s utter desperation, as he squirms against the wall, grabs at Stan’s hand and his wrist, and bucks his hips to try to speed up the movements, himself.

 

“If you really want me to take care of you, you just have to say so,” Stan purrs, into his ear, as he crowds into his space, once more, so close that he can feel each painfully slow jerk of his fist against his own clothed erection. Stan doesn’t often get visibly aroused, and is good at stifling it, if he does, a sort of ‘mind over matter’, situation, but in this particular instance, it happened more quickly and thoroughly than he had anticipated.

 

Bill grabs at Stan’s shoulders, as he closes in, furiously kisses him, several times; he reeks of desperation.

 

“P-please, S-S-Stan. _Please_.”

 

There’s a very slight increase, in the speed of Stan’s hand, at that.

 

“ _Oh_ , y-yeah… _please_ …p-please.”

 

Stan quickens his pace, once more, and smirks, as he watches Bill’s head drop against his shoulder. He’s already heard his first variation of the word ‘ _yes_ ’, and that’s exactly the moment Stan knows that he has Bill completely under his spell, when he begins to vehemently ‘agree’ with everything. Bill and Eddie are _both_ guilty of this, but Stan thinks it sounds much better when it’s stuttered out.

 

He hears it a couple more times, as he begins to jerk his hand quickly, the sounds _disgustingly_ slick and loud, in the dark, empty house. And _right_ when he knows Bill is about to come, he stops, and releases his fingers. Bill knows this game, all too well; they’ve played it far too many times, before, for his liking.

 

“ _N-No_ ,” Bill whimpers. His hips jolt upwards, towards Stan’s hand, but Stan is anticipating it, and he moves further away, not allowing any contact, at all.

 

“You know how it works,” he offers, confidently, “Remember how good it feels, when we get there.”

 

Bill lifts his head, now, and lets out a shaky breath, meeting Stan’s eyes. It’s a good thing Bill’s puppy-dog look doesn’t work on Stan, because he’s met with it, so often, he thinks he’d be doomed, if it did.

 

“ _Let me take care of you_.”

 

Eventually, Bill nods. He rests his head back against the wall, and takes a deep, steadying breath, as though bracing himself. Once more, Stan curls his slender, wet fingers around Bill’s leaking erection, and settles into broad, slow strokes, that have Bill’s brow rapidly furrowing in pleasure. His breath comes in quick, deep inhales, and slow, shuddering exhales, as Stan expertly works him to the edge, a second time, stopping just short of his climax, again.

 

“ _No-_ ” Bill hisses in, through his teeth, and groans in exasperation. He doesn’t have time to complain, however, since Stan replaces his hand much more quickly, this time, squeezing at the base as he rubs the flat of his palm over the pre-come-slick tip.

 

Bill is shaking and breathless, against the wall, as Stan repeatedly rubs him to that last, mind-numbing precipice, before an orgasm, and then leaves him, there, without release. Four, five, six times, until Bill is gripping at Stan’s sleeves, and his shirt collar, and pleading with him, begging him to keep going.

 

“P-please…it’s en-nough… _it’s enough._ ”

 

Stan slides his palms up Bill’s abdomen, and his chest, in the gap between the two sides of his button-up shirt; his skin is littered with goose pimples, and every touch causes him to tremble beneath it.

 

“You want me to make you come?” Stan whispers, against his cheek, as he brushes his lips up the side of Bill’s face, and Bill nods quickly, turning to catch his lips. Their kiss, this time, is sloppy, breathless, very clumsy, at least on Bill’s part. Still, Stan allows it to continue, for several minutes, with his hands firmly either side of Bill’s waist, tracing circles into the sensitive skin, there, until Bill groans impatiently into his mouth. “Turn around,” Stan commands, softly, when they break apart.

 

Bill hardly looks wary, in his addled state, as he does as Stan tells him to, resting his palms against the wall. Stan’s not sure what Bill is expecting to happen, as his boxer briefs are tugged free from his thighs, and discarded with his jeans, but it’s probably not to hear the distinctive sound of a cap, being opened, that he must only assume is lubricant, nor that slightly cold, slickened finger, that’s pressed inside him, up to the furthest knuckle. Stan, himself, is surprised by how easily he takes it, how little resistance, is there. Bill is generally tense, where this particular act, is involved, but now, it’s like he’s drunk, on near-climax-arousal and adrenaline, and as Stan twists his finger, and starts to move it, slowly, Bill presses his mouth against the inside of his bicep, and groans.

 

There’s discomfort, however, in the way his fingers clench against the wall, and the muscles in his back become taut. Stan slides the checked material up to Bill’s shoulders, so that he can reach the wide expanse of smooth, hot skin, there, and gently presses at the top of his spine, to encourage him to bend, just a little. It’s not long, before he slides in a second finger, and starts moving them both, at once; it’s slick, a steady rhythm, and Stan sees the arch of Bill’s back gradually relax. He _knows_ it feels good, even if he weren’t so sure of his own skill. Stan has never been able to make Bill come from being fingered, before, but he’ll be damned if he’s not going to prove that he can do so, right now.

 

“You’re doing so well, Bill,” he praises, as he continues to pump his fingers in and out, at a gradually faster pace, smoothing the palm of his free hand up and down across Bill’s back, soothingly. He’s not sure whether it’s those two, wet fingers, so deep inside him, or Stan’s voice, or the comforting hand stroking his back, or a combination of all three, but Bill is slowly sinking further against the wall, his groans becoming more frequent, his breath quickening far more rapidly than it was, before. Stan has never quite seen him so needy as a bottom; this is _exactly_ what he has been waiting for.

 

“ _I…I wanna c-come_ ,” Bill stammers, slightly dazedly, with a mild tone of surprise, too, like he didn’t know he could, just from something like this. One of his hands still drops from the wall, though, towards his lower body, and Stan knows where it’s headed; quickly he grabs for Bill’s wrist, pins it back up against the wall, and slides his palm over the back of Bill’s hand, gripping between his fingers.

 

“You don’t need to.”

 

Bill doesn’t protest. His other hand soon meets the back of Stan’s, squeezing fairly hard. It almost feels like an indication of trust, or perhaps a plea.

 

“That’s it,” Stan acknowledges, softly. There’s a chair, close beside them, against the wall, and Stan nudges at the back of Bills thigh, “Put your foot up on that first rung. It helps if you bend your knee.”

 

Once more, Bill obeys, and Stan feels the movements of his fingers ease, slightly. Sliding his hand free from between both of Bill’s, he drops to one knee, behind him; he has a better angle, this way, and he twists and curves his fingers until he feels his prostate, repeatedly pressing into it as he moves them in and out, rapidly. Glancing up the expanse of Bill’s shuddering back, and hearing him whimper, Stan gets the urge to make _some kind_ of noise, in response, but he supresses it, and gently bites at the back of Bill’s thigh.

 

Bill is clearly too far gone, at this stage, to conjure any kind of embarrassment at the position he’s in, or the position Stan is in, for that matter. In fact, he’s not sure that Bill even notices where either of them are. He curses, several times, in quick, stammering succession, his forehead pressed against the wall, blunt fingernails scraping at it desperately, and flaking off lines, in the paint, that neither of them notice, yet. Then, it’s just ‘ _yes_ ,’ over and over, between gritted teeth, Stan hears his name, jumbled in between, and it only encourages the severity of his assault. He reaches around Bill’s thigh with his free hand, and it only takes a light brush of his fingers up the underside of his straining erection, until Bill cries out, and comes hard, across the wall.

 

Stan slows his fingers, to an eventual stop, as Bill continues to shudder above him with every movement, finally withdrawing them, and getting to his feet. Bill still has his forehead against the wall, his legs are shaking, and Stan gently strokes at his back, and kisses the back of his neck, until he feels steady enough to move.

 

“W-woah…” Bill sniggers, sluggishly, and Stan laughs. He tugs Bill’s shirt from his shoulders, and uses it to clean the splatter of ejaculate from the wall. Bill looks scandalised.

 

“Th-that’s my favourite sh-shirt!”

 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Stan offers, smugly, as he picks up the rest of Bill’s clothes, “In fact,” he presses their bodies together, scattering a couple of slow kisses across Bill’s taut jawline, “I’ll buy you _ten_ new ones.”

 

“You can’t fix everything with m-money.”

 

“Watch me,” Stan quips, as he wanders confidently through into the kitchen.

 

Bill follows.

 

Stan is already loading Bill's clothes into the washing machine, but as soon as he has, he’s back to Bill, once more, pulling a chair out from the table, and pushing on his shoulders to encourage him into it.

 

“Stay.”

 

Stan sees Bill raise an eyebrow, looking bemused, and slightly uncomfortable at being completely naked, in the kitchen, especially since Stan is still fully dressed.

 

“You need to stay hydrated,” is Stan’s next request, as he retrieves a bottle of water from the refrigerator, pops the cap, and passes it to Bill. Bill drinks, obediently, but he’s watching Stan with an air of bemusement, and a little bit of worry; the hydration request is indication, on its own, of what Bill might be in for, tonight. It’s telling, at least, that Stan certainly isn’t done with him, yet.

 

"You look worried. Why?” Stan asks, calmly, as he rounds the chair, stands in front of Bill, and slowly unfastens his tie.

 

“B-b-because, I know you. And I th-think you’re going to do so-something horrible to me.”

 

Stan only smirks, as he slides his tie free from his shirt collar, and hooks it around the back of Bill’s neck, neatly sinking into his lap, “Why on Earth would you think that?” He uses the tie to pull Bill closer to him, eyes fixed on Bill’s mouth, delighting when Bill tries to kiss him, and chases his lips every time Stan moves a little out of his reach.

 

“Because you’re a s-sadist,” Bill pouts, his free hand gripping at Stan’s waist, “And you’re mean.”

 

“I’m ‘ _mean_ ’?” Stan raises his eyebrows, and lifts out of Bill’s lap, to step away. He folds his tie, and leaves it on the kitchen table, “What I did to you, just now, was that _mean_?”

 

“Well, no, b-but-”

 

“Is it _mean_ , that I want you to open up to me, so I’m using sex as the catalyst, because it’s easier than trying to force you to talk about how you’re feeling?”

 

“W-…um…I g-guess no-”

 

“Is it _mean_ , that I just want my boyfriend to openly engage in receiving sexual pleasure, without feeling embarrassed about it?”

 

“No,” Bill says, firmly, and there’s an obvious smile on his face, “You just c-called me your b-boyfriend.”

 

“ _Drink_ ,” Stan can’t help but smile back, as he rests his fingers beneath the bottom of the water bottle, and tips it upward, until Bill does as he’s told. He drinks most of the water, because he clearly knows that Stan won’t be satisfied, until he does, and as he’s drinking, and starting to feel a lot less shaky, he watches Stan undress.

 

First, he takes off his shoes, and neatly places them under the kitchen table, tucks his socks inside. Stan is the only one of them who wears shoes around the house quite frequently, as though he always feels the need to be ‘prepared’. Stan doesn’t even know what it is he’s preparing for, himself, when he does it, and doesn’t really even remember putting them on, today, but he has often analysed that he’s more likely to feel the need to put his shoes on, when there’s something causing him stress. Today, he imagines that his mind was so focused on tonight’s ‘plan’, and making sure everyone fit into it accordingly, that he hardly noticed that he had quickly turned something that was supposed to be fun, and rewarding, into something stressful. Such is the nature of Stanley Uris.

 

Next, comes his shirt, and then his belt, and trousers, each of which he folds, neatly, and stacks on the kitchen table, perpendicular to the nearest corner. He can see Bill’s eyes on him, the whole time, eager and needy to touch Stan’s body, to feel their skin together; Bill has a fairly short refractory period, between climaxes, anyway, but Stan knows the best ways to speed it along, further still.

 

“How do you feel?” He questions, affectionately, as he settles into Bill’s lap, once more, and brushes his hands back through his hair. Just as suspected, Bill’s fingertips couldn’t possibly reach for Stan’s bare skin, any faster. First, they’re on his waist, and then up his back, around onto his chest, and his stomach, and then on his thighs, gripping just enough to indicate that Bill’s starting to feel aroused, again.

 

“G-good.”

 

“Good?” Stan kisses at Bill’s temple, and his cheek, as he minutely presses his hips down into his lap. Exactly as he had hoped, Bill presses back, and Stan feels a twitch of movement. He hums in proud amusement, against the side of Bill’s face, as he very slowly grinds against him, and whispers filthy praises into his ear, gradually working him back up to full hardness, once more.

 

“You-you’re gonna k-kill me,” Bill groans, and Stan laughs.

 

“Not you.” He circles his hips against Bill’s, languidly, watching the pleasure and lust that’s overtaking his expression, “But I probably will kill _somebody_ , eventually.”

 

Stan follows Bill’s line of sight, and it’s fixed hard on Stan’s hips, now, where his hands are gripping him, firm and determined. He can feel the solid, sizeable press of Bill’s erection against his backside, and very briefly, his resolve wavers; right now he has the urge to get Bill inside him, to ride him right there in the kitchen until Bill is gasping for breath, but in that moment, weeks of planning and manipulation would have been for nothing.

 

“I’ll visit you in p-prison.”

 

“What makes you think I would get caught?” Stan muses, with a smirk on his lips, as he leans in for a slow, wet kiss, the kind that has Bill groaning into it, “You’d have to be my accomplice.”

 

They share another kiss, and when they pull apart, Bill is looking at him with such utter, sycophantic infatuation, that Stan believes he could ask Bill to kill somebody, _for_ him, and he would definitely do it.

 

"I'll do whatever you wa-want.”

 

Stan sniggers, as he lifts Bill’s wrist, kisses his palm, and then presses his tongue out, into it, sliding it slowly down to his elbow, past it across his inner bicep, and onto his chest. There, he spends a short while teasing one of Bill’s nipples against his tongue, and finding great amusement in watching, hearing and feeling him flinch and curse every time he gently bites it.

 

"S-s-stop biting!” he scolds, though he’s laughing, as he slides his hand across his chest, and over the reddened bud, to protect it from Stan’s mouth. Stan only sniggers, softly, as he climbs out of Bill’s lap, and continues the journey of his lips, down Bill’s abdomen, until he’s on his knees on the kitchen floor.

 

“N-no biting, _no biting-”_ Bill orders, quickly, but it sounds more like a plea, than a command, and he’s leaning forward out of the chair, as though readying to escape. He very rapidly sinks back into it, though, as soon as Stan’s lips sink around _him_ , and his head is confidently rising and falling in Bill’s lap.

 

There’s no teasing about it, this time; Stan is determined to make a mess out of Bill, tonight, and right now, he’s still far too composed, as far as Stan is concerned. He keeps the press of his tongue tight against Bill’s shaft as he bobs his head, and soon he can feel both of Bill’s hands in his curls, and his hips lifting out of the chair, pressing desperately closer into the warmth of Stan’s wet mouth. He’s likely still a little oversensitive, but only enough to help, and not hinder, right now, as Bill is openly demonstrating by the shudders in his breath, and the restless movement of his bare feet against the wooden floor.

 

Barely a minute later, Stan feels Bill’s fingers tightening in his hair, hears a whiny ‘ _O-oh shit_ ’, and sees the tension in Bill’s thighs either side of his head. He knows Bill is going to come, but he only deepens each downward slide of his lips, until he can press them firmly against Bill’s groin, and he can feel him in the back of his throat. The urge is frequently there to gag, but Stan stays confidently in control, even when Bill releases onto the back of his tongue, following through with a few more movements, to draw out the last of his climax.

 

Finally, Stan slides his lips free, and lifts his hand in indication. Bill quickly hands him the bottle of water from the table, and Stan swallows, before he finishes the last of its contents.

 

“Wh-why didn’t you just s-sp-spit it out?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“I th-thought you s-said it gives you acid reflux.”

 

“I’ll take an antacid.”

 

Bill stares at him, for a while, before he begins to laugh, and Stan soon follows, as he gets to his feet. Holding onto Bill’s hand, he pulls him up from the chair.

 

“Wh-where are we going now?”

 

“Upstairs.” Stan tugs him out into the hallway, while Bill attempts, poorly, to cover some of his nude body. He’s still a little breathless, and mildly sweaty, but he also seems slightly high on post-climactic adrenaline, and Stan thinks that might be the only reason Bill is being so blindly obedient.

 

It takes them several attempts to actually _get_ upstairs, though.

 

In the downstairs hallway, they kiss for several minutes, up against the wall beside the staircase, giggling like children into one another’s mouths as Bill tries to take off Stan’s underwear, and Stan continuously dodges his grabbing hands, holds his wrists, so that he can’t, and gradually subdues him by extending the trail of hickeys that started on his collarbones. He leaves several scattered across Bill’s chest, his waist, and his abdomen, and even a couple on his arms, as, all the while, Bill urges Stan to allow Bill to touch him, to pleasure him in any and all of the ways Stan has been doing to him. But Stan only leaves a final, lingering kiss against Bill’s palm, before beckoning him up the first staircase.

 

At the top, Stan has Bill pinned to the wall, once more, this time, face-first. Following a similar pattern to the one he has decorated across Bill’s front, he begins to leave a myriad of mouth-sized bruises over his back, too. The one he sucks into the back of Bill’s neck, in particular, Stan takes his time with, licking, biting, blowing cool breath over the wet, reddened skin, and proudly watching Bill shudder, admiring the goose pimples that erupt down the length of his spine.

 

“ _That feels so goo-good_ ,” Bill breathes hotly, against the wall, as Stan works on darkening the mark.

 

“Think you can go again?”

 

“G-g-gimme a m-minute.”

 

“Sixty…fifty-nine…fifty-eight,” Stan whispers smugly against the side of Bill’s neck, and Bill chuckles, as Stan lightly grazes his nails up and down the small of his back. “Are you tired, yet?”

 

“Not r-really.”

 

“Good.” Stan takes Bill’s hand, once more, and leads him up the second staircase, where they reach their final destination: Stan’s bedroom.

 

It’s dark, inside, but the curtains are open, allowing the natural moonlight to illuminate the room enough that they can easily see. It must have been two hours, at least, since Stan first approached Bill, at his easel. Stan closes the door. He locks it. The room is impeccably neat, as it usually is, but there are two bottles of water, on the nightstand, some lubricant, a neat red box, and a bar of chocolate; Bill notices them, instantly, knowing the room well enough to be aware that they’re out of place. There’s a towel on the bed, too, and a mere millisecond after Bill notices it, he’s forced backwards onto it, by Stan’s body, and trapped between his thighs, once he’s there.

 

"Do you want to play a game?" Stan whispers, slightly menacingly, against Bill’s lips.

 

“I knew le-letting you watch those movies was a bad idea.”

 

"I was really inspired."

 

Bill laughs, “You didn’t even like them. You hid behind a p-pillow the ent-tire time.”

 

“Well, my game is a lot more fun, and involves a lot less blood…probably.” Stan leans over Bill’s head, to take the red box from the nightstand, before he sits back on Bill’s stomach, again.

 

“Wh-what is that?”

 

“It’s a toy.”

 

“I’m g-guessing you don’t mean the kind f-for kids.”

 

“Obviously.” Stan opens the box, and pulls out an expensive looking, black, silicone device, about four inches long, and a thin, silver cylinder, which he inserts into the bottom of it.

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s a prostate massager.” Stan stretches over him, again, to place the box back onto the table, and retrieve the bottle of lubricant.

 

“I th-thought you already had one of those.”

 

“Actually, I have two, not including this one.”

 

“Why do you n-need three of them? Do you have thr-three prostates?”

 

Stan sighs a little, although he looks amused. Bill sniggers, and squeezes Stan’s thighs.

 

“This one vibrates,” He demonstrates this, by pressing the silver button on the base, until the hum of the device is audible.

 

“Wh-what do the other ones d-do then?”

 

“They don’t do anything. It’s almost like a plug.” Stan presses the button, once more, and switches it off, “But it’s all to do with the shape.” He strokes his index finger down the curved, ridged edge of the massager.

 

"Oh."

 

“And you’re going to try this one, first.”

 

“It doesn’t s-s-seem like I have a choice.”

 

“That’s very astute of you.”

 

Stan is already liberally applying lubricant to the silicone, while Bill watches him and tucks a hand back into his hair, looking slightly uneasy.

 

“I th-thought you s-said it feels ‘weird’?”

 

“It does, at first.” Stan moves back off Bill’s body, and encourages him to move his legs, until he’s kneeling in front of him, with Bill’s thighs over his own, “But it’s a good kind of weird.”

 

Bill frowns, but stays put, and stays calm, as Stan tips some more lube against his fingers.

 

“That’s s-so much lube.”

 

“Would you believe me if I said that I didn’t want to hurt you?” Stan says coolly, as he rubs his middle finger in small circles over Bill’s entrance, and watches him twitch.

 

“N-no…” Bill’s hand slides down from his hair, to cover his eyes, instead, and he chews at his lip, as Stan slides his finger into him, briefly, before withdrawing it again.

 

“Bend your knees.”

 

Bill does as he’s told, although he definitely looks apprehensive, now.

 

“Just relax,” Stan says, calmly, as he presses the head of the device against him, and shifts closer, so that more of their bodies are touching. He watches Bill’s face, carefully, as he strokes at his inner thigh, and squeezes affectionately, “It doesn’t hurt. It just feels a little bit strange, at first. As long as you stay calm, and don’t fight it, it feels so good, I promise.”

 

Bill’s feet shift a little, on the bed, one of his thighs rests more heavily against Stan’s, and he nods.

 

“If you don’t like it, we can stop.” Stan reaches out toward Bill’s stomach, where his other hand is, and holds onto it, linking their fingers. Bill’s palm is sweaty, but he seems okay. Stan takes his silence, as a sign of acceptance, and carefully, he presses the massager into him, observing the slow rise of Bill’s hips as it sinks deeper, until it’s fully inside. There’s a little hiss from between Bill’s lips, then, and his fingers tighten between Stan’s.

 

“I-it f-feels so weird…it feels rea-really weird…”

 

“I know. That’s totally normal,” Stan assures, softly, gently grazing his nails up and down the underside of one of Bill’s thighs, “Every time you move, or your muscles contract, even a little, it’s doing its job. Just relax, and let it happen. I won’t turn it on, yet.”

 

Bill’s hand is still covering his eyes, but Stan takes note of every minute change in his expression, stroking gently at his bare skin, and keeping hold of his hand, for the next several minutes, until he sees Bill’s hips twitch, and hears him emit a stifled, shaky breath. He can’t help the small smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips, then.

 

Teasingly, he grazes his nails across Bill’s groin, beside his now rapidly re-growing erection, stimulating sensitive nerve-endings there, and causing further twitches and contractions in his lower body that he knows are aiding the work of the device inside him. Several times, he hears and sees Bill gasp, sees his thighs shake, uncontrollable, but brief.

 

“ _That’s good. You’re so good_ ,” Stan whispers, into the quiet, and the darkness, in the room, and when Bill whimpers, fairly loudly, and lustily, in response, Stan is glad that Bill can’t see the way it makes him shudder.

 

A few more minutes pass, and Stan can see the muscles repeatedly and beautifully tightening in Bill’s toned abdomen, highlighted with a light sheen of sweat that’s reflecting moonlight from the uncovered window. Stan can see his climax building, like a crescendo, but he knows that it’s different to the type of finish Bill is used to, and he can see it in the stifled twitching of his hips. Several times, Bill curses softly, getting louder, and more frequent, his back arching away from the bed almost blindly as his body searches for more pleasure from something he physically can’t press any closer to. He whimpers, once more, bitterly.

 

“ _I w-wanna come.”_ he groans, sounding frustrated, and almost questioning, like he’s asking Stan whether it’s going to happen, or not.

 

“Be patient.”

 

“ _I wanna come s-s-so bad…”_

“You _will_.”

 

“ _S-Sta-Stan_ …”

 

Stan is having a hard time remaining composed, and he never even saw it coming. Hearing Bill so needy for him, pleading, stuttering his name so desperately, is making his mind fuzzy in a way he’s definitely not used to. He releases his hand from Bill’s, so that he can hold onto both of his hips, and press in closer. From there, he begins a gentle rock against Bill’s body, manually stimulating the device inside him, in a way that Bill is clearly too impatient, clumsy, and inexperienced to manage, himself.

 

Both of Bill’s hands twist into the sheets either side of his head, now, his brow furrowed, eyes closed tightly. There’s sweat beading on his brow, sticking fine strands of hair to the edges of his face in a way that Stan is finding impossibly sexy. He loves watching people come undone, like this, and it’s feeding his own arousal in a particularly throbbing, uncomfortable manner.

 

“ _Can you feel it?”_ He purrs, as he continues his slow, controlled rhythm, despite his body screaming at him to be anything _but_ slow and controlled.

 

Bill nods quickly, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth and groaning low and loud. The twitching movements of his hips stop, briefly, and Stan knows it’s the calm, before the storm. He tightens his hold on him, and stops his own movements, watching intently as Bill’s hips suddenly buck hard, and then he’s trembling violently. Stan isn’t anticipating how loudly Bill cries out, in ecstasy, as he experiences his first intense, dry orgasm. He’s _very_ glad he planned for them to be alone.

 

He whispers soft praises as he strokes at Bill’s sides and delights in the feeling of his body shuddering so thoroughly beneath his fingertips. There are no tears, yet, but the noises Bill is making almost sound like sobs as the stimulation continues, before he has any time to recover.

 

“ _You look so good like this_ ,” Stan compliments, in a low voice, as he drags his nails down Bill’s stomach, leaving faint red lines, in his wake.

 

Bill only moans, in response.

 

“ _Does it feel good_?”

 

“ _Ye-yeah_.”

 

"Shall we turn it up a notch?" Stan slides one of his hands down, between Bill's shaking thighs, to press the button on the base of the device. He faintly hears the buzzing sound, as it comes to life, but it’s overshadowed by the noise Bill makes; a guttural, gritty groan that’s as lengthy as it is loud.

 

Bill’s hands release from the sheets, only to blindly reach for Stan, instead, and Stan meets them with his own palms, crawling up Bill’s body to sit, once more, on his stomach, and pin his arms above his head. He hungrily watches him squirm against the bed, admires the way his lips repeatedly stretch open and then are pressed hard together, admires the variation between loud, clear moans, and timid, stifled groaning.

 

" _P-p-pl-please_ …” Bill stammers, rather pitifully, and Stan dips down to kiss him, slow and wet and passionate, every groan Bill spills into his mouth feeling, to Stan, like _bliss_.

 

When he pulls away, Bill is staring at him, right in the eyes, more intensely than Stan thinks Bill has ever looked at him, before.

 

“ _I w-want you_.”

 

“ _I’m here_.” Stan knows what he means, but he wants to hear him _say it_. He’s literally holding his breath as Bill speaks, again, fighting for speech between his stutter, his panting breath, and the jolts of pleasure still visibly coursing through his body.

 

“ _N-no…pl-please…”_

 

“ _Tell me. Say it_.”

 

“ _O-oh sh-shit…I want y-you…I want you to f-fuck me…”_

 

It hits Stan like a blow to the chest; he feels momentarily winded. Bill has never said anything like that to him, before, let alone in such a pleading, shameless manner. Once more, they share a kiss, but this one is desperate on both sides, and when Bill grunts into it, so does Stan.

 

He moves quickly, after that, to turn off the massager that’s still inside him, and to slide it free, with a hiss from Bill. Stan wipes it off, briefly, on the towel beneath them, and discards it haphazardly onto the edge of the nightstand, before tugging off his underwear. It’s a little difficult, with Bill now attempting to ‘help’, but really, all he’s doing is getting in the way, which Stan demonstrates by pushing on Bill’s chest fairly roughly, and forcing him onto his back, again.

 

Bill lets out a distinctive, breathless huff, when he hits the bed, again, but he seems eager, and grateful, when Stan is on top of him, between his thighs, and even more appreciative, when Stan presses into him, and sheathes himself fully with a rough snap of his hips. Bill gasps loudly, in response, arms hooking tight around Stan’s shoulders, legs curving about his waist, as Stan begins to rock into him fairly relentlessly.

 

They’re just a mess of slender, tangled limbs, now, locked tightly together, chest-to-chest, forehead-to-forehead, Bill’s frequent, enraptured moans lost in Stan’s mouth as they share a lengthy, passionate kiss, only broken every once in a while, to breathe. Stan can feel Bill’s heels pressing against the bottom of his spine, and he’s finding that it’s a surprisingly sensitive area, that he was somehow unaware of, before now. Or, perhaps, just the thought of Bill’s legs wrapped so tightly around him, clinging to Stan’s body for comfort as he’s being completely unravelled, is creating the illusion, all on its own.

 

Far more quickly than he imagined, Stan feels a sudden, jerking movement between their bodies, and a slick of warm liquid against his stomach, as Bill breaks from his lips to gasp out a raw, almost tearful sound, followed by a stream of breathless curses; his fourth climax of the night. Stan slows his hips considerably, to a gentle roll, as Bill catches his breath.

 

Four times, is the most Stan has ever pushed Bill to, before.

 

But that’s about to change, tonight.

 

Stan feels as though he could come, himself, soon. Sometimes, he finds it difficult, to reach completion; likely an unfortunate side-effect of his uptight personality, and testament to the severity of the hold his mental health often has on his body. Tonight, however, is not one of those nights. He feels relaxed, comfortable, and safe, with Bill, and watching him come apart, the way he has, for the past few hours, has done more to him than he ever imagined it would. Bill is still fairly inexperienced, as a bottom, but his body is tight, and incredibly warm, and his skin is the softest Stan has ever felt, strangely akin to the velvety feeling of ultra-soft silicone…the kind his new ‘toy’ is made of…he’s not sure how Bill would feel about that analogy, though.

 

Their tempo is slow, for a long time, perhaps thirty minutes, or so, relaxed, and sensual. Stan gently brushes Bill’s sweaty hair back from his forehead, with his fingers, as their bodies undulate together at a calm, languid pace. Bill’s face is flushed, all over, and Stan softly kisses his forehead, and the tops of his cheeks, and then his swollen lips, as Bill strokes at Stan’s back, and his waist, and offers a long, drowsy groan, every few thrusts.

 

“ _I love you s-so much_ ,” Bill mumbles breathily, sliding his hands up either side of Stan’s face, and twisting the curls by his ears around his fingers.

 

Stan smiles against his lips, “ _I love you, too_.”

 

Bill’s hands go to Stan’s chest, then, and down his stomach, gripping at his waist, and then curving to the small of his back, so that he can dig his fingers into his backside.

 

“ _Are you getting cl-close_?”

 

“ _Not yet_.”

 

“ _Do you n-need me to d-do anything_?”

 

“ _No_.” Stan scoffs a little, and shakes his head, as Bill leans up to kiss affectionately at the corner of his mouth.

 

“ _Are you s-s-sure_?” Stan feels Bill’s hands come up towards his throat, then, pressing gently against it, and he feels his adrenaline peak, but he knows he’ll get too lost, in the moment, if they do that, so he quickly deters him with a shake of his head.

 

“ _I bet you come again, before I do_.” Stan says smugly, and although Bill looks amused, there’s a bit of a worried knot in his brow.

 

“ _I c-can’t…I ca-can’t d-do it again_ …”

 

“ _We’ll see about that_.”

 

Stan sits back, then, on his knees, grazes his fingernails down Bill’s chest, and his stomach, once more, leaving behind another, surprisingly neat, pattern of red lines on his pale skin. At his abdomen, he presses down, digs in, just enough to make Bill hiss hard, and buck, and when he does, Stan meets his hips with a rough thrust, the impact sounding with a distinctive _slap_ as their bodies collide.

 

Bill yells out a loud curse, his head snapping back against the bed, and his back arching up hard. The sound he makes is distinctly distressed, but the moment Stan lifts Bill’s foot to rest it against his shoulder, and sets a deep, rough rhythm, Bill is gasping with pleasure, blindly grasping at the sheets, and brokenly _begging_ him not to stop.

 

It’s a far cry from the calm, loving atmosphere that filled the room only minutes earlier. Now, the room is thick with hot breath, the musky smell of sweat and sex, a heavy, animal lust that both of them are quickly lost in. Bill, clawing at the sheets either side of his head, unashamedly gasping and groaning on most of his outward breaths, urging Stan, in horrendously jumbled, broken words, to go harder…faster…whimpering his name with tears brimming in his eyes, only visible in the brief moments they’re not squeezed shut. And Stan, attentively obliging each of Bill’s desperate requests, gripping at Bill’s thighs, and cursing once or twice, quietly, himself, as he watches him, wondering dizzily whether Bill feels so much love for him that it _hurts_ , too.

 

With a strangled cry, which ends with tears cascading freely down the edges of his face, Bill comes for a fifth time.

 

Stan slows his hips, once more, this time to a stop, lowering Bill’s leg so that he can lean down over him, again. Although Bill is not exactly _crying_ , the tears are a strong indication, to Stan, that he is overwhelmed. He gently wipes his thumbs beneath Bill’s eyes, clears his forehead of hair, again, and kisses his temples.

 

“ _Are you okay_?” He asks, as gently as he can manage, though he is fairly breathless, himself.

 

Bill nods, although his eyes are heavily lidded, and he looks so flustered he almost appears feverish. Stan uses the edge of the towel, that’s beneath them, to wipe Bill’s forehead, and watches him carefully, to ensure that his breathing evens out to an acceptable level.

 

“ _You think you can go again?_ ”

Bill’s brow creases, and he lets out a weak, exasperated sigh.

 

“ _Just one more_ ,” Stan urges, scattering soft kisses across Bill’s face, and briefly catching his lips; Bill weakly, but enthusiastically kisses back, looking a little lost when Stan pulls away, “ _We’ll go slow_.”

 

Bill is staring at him, now, looking conflicted, and exhausted, but he nods his consent, and Stan pulls out to gently roll Bill onto his stomach, pulling a pillow down, from the head of the bed, so that Bill can get more comfortable. He wraps his arms around it, and rests his chin into the soft material; Stan swears he even sees Bill smell the fabric, and knowing that it’s from the side Stan always sleeps on, he smiles, to himself, and briefly nuzzles into Bill’s hair.

 

He applies a little more lubricant, before he slides back in, and even as overstimulated, and exhausted as he is, Bill’s hips push back to meet him, with a jittery sigh.

 

“ _You’re so good, Bill. You’re so good_ ,” Stan flatters, quietly, into his ear, and Bill whimpers almost inaudibly, as Stan pulls back, and then slides in again slowly.

 

“ _You’re so brave, and you’re so talented, and so beautiful,”_ he continues, as he grazes his nails up and down Bill’s back, and lazily rocks into him. Bill huffs out a hard breath as he rests his cheek against the pillow, and Stan brushes his lips up the side of his face.

 

He can tell that Bill is overstimulated, that he’s sensitive to the point of pain, that he’s tired, and out-of-breath, and completely mentally drained, but every time Stan slides into his body, Bill lifts his hips from the bed, and sighs heavily in uncomfortable pleasure.

 

Gradually, the pace quickens, again, and Stan can see Bill gritting his teeth, his hands starting to shift beneath the pillow, so that he can grip against it. Stan can feel himself nearing his end, but he’s determined, this time, that they finish together. Bill is only half hard again, Stan feels as much, when he slides his hand into the gap, where Bill’s hips are lifted from the bed.

 

“ _No!_ ” Bill hisses, quickly, and flinches away from Stan’s touch, but he’s powerless beneath him, as Stan digs his fingers into Bill’s groin.

 

“ _I want you to come with me_ ,” Stan breathes, hotly, into Bill’s ear, and Bill quivers.

 

“ _I c-c-can’t_.”

 

“ _You can_.”

 

Bill shakes his head, “ _N-no more_ …”

 

“ _Push through for me_. _Just one more_.”

 

Bill lets out an exhausted whimper, then, but for all his protests, when Stan slows his hips, for them to speak, Bill seems almost frustrated, and presses his body back against him, a few times, as though encouraging him to move faster, again.

 

Reading Bill’s body language, Stan rocks his hips in accordance with the pace that seems to feel most satisfying to him; they end up at a steady, middling speed, not too slow that either of them are unsatisfied, but not too quickly that Bill cannot cope.

 

Bill displays a confusing mix of emotions, throughout. Several times, he tearfully begs Stan to stop, but when Stan makes any kind of indication that he’s going to, Bill protests, again, and pleads with him not to. Eventually, Stan makes a snap judgement, to speed up and deepen each thrust, enough that Bill cannot talk, at all, anymore. It is still not as brutal, as before Bill’s previous climax, but _just_ rough enough, that he is sobbing the word, ‘ _yes_ ’, over and over, into the pillow, before the end.

 

It’s an end which arrives sooner than Stan expected, from Bill. Right when Stan is wondering how much longer he, himself, can hold out, Bill gasps loudly, and presses his back up flush against Stan’s chest, coming _hard_ into Stan’s fist, when he wraps his hand around him. Feeling the sticky, trembling heat of Bill’s body, forced so fully against him, Stan _finally_ comes, too.

 

Bill collapses against the bed, completely and utterly _spent_.

 

Stan carefully withdraws from him, moments later, rubbing comfortingly at Bill’s back, only mildly breathless and tired, himself, as he retrieves a warm, clean towel, from the radiator, and starts using it to clean Bill’s body. Bill still makes no effort, at all, to move.

 

“Are you okay?” Stan asks, softly, stroking the flat of his palm across his now-dry back.

 

Bill doesn’t move, or respond.

 

“Bill?” Stan leans over him, feeling panic rising in his throat, like bile, at the sight of Bill’s closed eyes, and his lack of obvious consciousness. “Bill?” Stan drops down from the bed, onto his knees, close to Bill’s face, pushing his hair back and patting gently at his cheek, “Bill, open your eyes.”

 

He does, but once they’re open, Bill looks dazed, and confused, as though suddenly woken out of a deep sleep, that he doesn’t recall slipping into.

 

Stan sighs, in relief, stroking his fingers softly through Bill’s hair, as he watches him closely, until Bill’s eyes seem to properly focus on him.

 

“Are you okay, Bill?”

 

“Y-yeah…”

 

“You scared me…”

 

“ _I_ sc-scared _you_?” Bill chuckles, softly, although it’s weak.

 

Stan smiles, brushing his thumb across Bill’s lips.

 

“I’m t-tired.”

 

“I know. But you’re pretty disgusting right now, and you’re on my bed.”

 

“Who-whose fault is that?”

 

Stan laughs, feeling light-hearted. He spends the next fifteen minutes, tidying up the mess in his room, but mostly tidying Bill, and feeding him chocolate and water, until Bill is spread across the bed on his front, beside Stan, with his eyes closed, looking impossibly content.

 

“I think you should take a shower.”

 

“T-too t-tired.”

 

“You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

 

“J-just an hour.”

 

“Half.”

 

Bill doesn’t respond; his lips have fallen slightly open, and Stan watches him, lovingly, as he tenderly traces neat patterns into Bill’s back with his fingertips, and presses a feather-light kiss to his lips.

 

“ _Sleep tight, my little Blue Jay_.”


End file.
